


A Happy Medium

by birdup (captainmycatisthedevil)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Monster of the Week, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Stiles Stilinski, Seer Stiles Stilinski, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-20 23:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6029524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainmycatisthedevil/pseuds/birdup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Stiles can see is green foliage, vague and a little blurry.  He thinks he might be in the preserve, but he can't tell. He hears a woman's voice calling out to him, and feels muddled and confused, but feels a tug, a compulsion to follow the voice. He takes a few faltering steps, and then hears the rustle of a large...something, dragging itself behind him. Time seems to slow as Stiles turns his head and looks straight into a pair of bright green eyes. And then he wakes up. </p><p>Stiles and the gang are back from college and Stiles is BORED. He's underemployed, unambitious, antsy, and sort of just...hanging out. But then he starts to get migraines, which turn into weird, terrifying visions. He brushes it off as a product of insomnia and the aftereffects of seeing too many gruesome things at such a young age. But maybe the green eyes aren't just a figment of his imagination, and Beacon Hills must once again batten down the hatches against an oncoming storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What to do With a Degree in the Humanities

Stiles’ day starts at 6:00 am. After snoozing about 15 different alarms, Stiles jolts awake to see that he now has ten minutes to eat and shower. On the way to the kitchen, Rod, Stiles’ permanently grump cat, bites at Stiles’ ankles as he jams toast in his mouth and trips into his shoes. He has to double back in to grab his belt, pants slipping off his hips as he wrestles Rod away from the door. By the time Stiles pulls into the parking lot of the sheriffs station he’s five minutes late. That’s honestly his best time this week.

 

When Stiles imagined post-grad, he sort of thought he’d go into research. Possibly academia. He was a master of library resources in his undergrad, spent hours digging through databases learning everything he could ever want. He’d done summer research projects, internships in labs of all sorts of disciplines. Spent a summer cutting up frog embryos and counting butterfly eggs, and another summer working in an archive. He’d graduated with a BA in Religious Studies and minors in both Statistics and Folklore.

 

And now he was working the front desk of the sheriff’s station. Not quite what he spent four years studying. It was only his first fall after graduating, and it was ‘totally okay that he didn’t really have a direction’, or so Scott always reminded him. At least the station paid well. Scott was finishing vet school and working at Dr. Deaton’s in his free time, living with his mom to save costs. They had all split after high school graduation, heading off to get their degrees. Yet they had all somehow wandered back. Lydia was taking a small break before getting her PhD in Mathematics, spending a year doing research from home. Kira was a student teacher at the high school, following in her dad’s footsteps. Every Friday night the four of them meet for dinner, what Stiles calls ‘pack night’ much to Scott’s amusement and Lydia’s annoyance.

 

Stiles stumbled as he walked through the door of the precinct, still groggy and misty eyed from sleep, and heard a soft chuckle. Derek was leaning against his desk, brow raised sarcastically. Stiles scowled, trying to hide his blush, and shouldered passed Derek to sit at his desk.

 

“Fuck off, Derek” Stiles mumbled.

Derek cleared his throat obnoxiously; smirking at the glare Stiles shot him in response.

 

“Fine. Fuck off, _Deputy Hale._ Happy?” Derek smiled smugly and ambled back to his desk. Stiles flipped him the bird and grimaced at Derek’s retreating back.

 

The sheriff found out about the supernatural during Stiles’ senior year of high school when a pack of brownies invaded Beacon Hills. It had started off as vandalism reports, then burglaries, and ended with Stiles and the sheriff barricaded in the girls’ locker room while the rest of the pack chased down the brownies. Let it be known that brownies have quite the sense of humor. There was no denying the supernatural anymore after a small elf-y looking creature shoved them bodily into the locker room. After forcing the Sheriff to sit down and take some deep breaths, Stiles sheepishly copped to all of the lies of the past three years. All while sitting in front of the volleyball team’s lockers. It was pretty surreal.

 

When they left for freshman year of college, Beacon Hills was placed under the care of Derek and the Sheriff. It took a lot of coaxing for Scott to let go of the town, Deaton and Derek gently reminding Scott that an Alpha can be away from his territory for a few months at a time without the world ending, while Stiles and Melissa took to slapping the back of Scott’s head and telling him he better ‘go to fucking school or so help me!’

 

Stiles will forever be grateful that he got to see Scott go to college. No matter how stressed or lonely Stiles felt so far away from his home and his people, it always made him smile to skype Scott and hear what new thing he’d tried, or what new friend he’d made in class. Stiles watched Scott join and then quit the student government, become a key member of the salsa-dancing club, and then become president of a fraternity. Stiles saw the way Scott’s shoulders relaxed when he wasn’t worrying about defending Beacon Hills, and it made something in Stiles unclench too. After all of the terrible shit they went through, they deserved to find out that parties are crowded and boring, and that textbooks will always cost too much.

 

It was winter break of their sophomore year, and Stiles was bringing his dad lunch at the station. He was looking down at his phone, trying to find the elusive GIF that would finally convey just how much of an idiot Scott truly is, when he rammed into something. Stiles stumbled back, seconds away from falling on his ass, when two hands reached out and grabbed his shoulders. Stiles looked up and blinked into the stony glare of Derek Hale.

 

“Derek? What are you…?” Khaki shirt. Khaki pants. Badge. “No way, man, there is _no way_ that you became a—“

 

“Deputy Hale, could you come see me in my office for a minute?” Stiles gaped at his father, who was beckoning Derek into his office. Derek shot Stiles a smug grin, and sauntered over to the Sheriff. Stiles’ dad shot Stiles a warning look and said “I’ll be with you in a minute, son. _Deputy Hale_ and I need to look over a case for a moment”. The door shut behind Derek with a click, but not before he shot Stiles one last amused smirk. Stiles stared at the closed door for a minute, pinched himself, and then kept staring. He sent Scott _did u kno Derek is a deputy ???_ and got a confused emoji in response. Derek walked out ten minutes later, Stiles brushing past him to hurry his way into the office. Stiles cast one last look at Derek’s retreating back and slammed the door behind him. The Sheriff opened his mouth to say something, probably a reprimand, but Stiles shushed him and grabbed a legal pad from the desk. His dad looked confused until Stiles pointed to his ears and then mimed howling at the moon. His dad rolled his eyes. _Derek is a deputy now??_ Stiles scribbled furiously.

 

His dad just sighed in response, gestured for Stiles to sit down, and answered “Yes, Stiles, Derek is a deputy now. Obviously.” Stiles pulled a face and then wrote _since when??_

 

“About three months now. Since he graduated the academy.”

 

“But _Why???_ ” Stiles cried, completely abandoning the note pad.

“I needed someone to work supernatural cases, and he was the best candidate. If you wanna know why he accepted the job, you’re gonna have to ask him yourself, kiddo.” With that, the sheriff opened the bag still dangling from Stiles’ lax hands, and dug into his lunch. “What do you want to eat for dinner tonight?” he asked, pointedly changing the subject. It wasn’t until much later that Stiles badgered Derek into admitting that the sheriff bullied him into going to the academy and then becoming a supernatural consultant. He glared at Stiles as he admitted this, as if it was somehow Stiles’ fault that the Stilinski’s are all pushy bastards. He could probably smell how proud Stiles was of his dad.

 

Beacon Hills was pretty quiet after that. Derek and the sheriff, with the occasional help of Dr. Deaton, dealt with a few rogue omegas, a vampire or two, and something called an “Ogopogo”, which was some sort of lake demon? His dad wasn’t very clear on the details, and seemed pretty grumpy when he skyped Stiles about it. It had been quiet ever since the pack returned too, which is why Stiles sighed when he caught Derek’s glare as he ran in late to work. Mr. Grumpy pants can suck it, Stiles had probably only missed one call from some elderly woman about raccoons or something. It’s not like his job was interesting.

 

Stiles fielded five calls by lunchtime, three of which were about the same piece of graffiti. He played his usual 50 games of solitaire, threw paper airplanes at Derek’s desk until he threatened to eviscerate Stiles, and drank about five cups of coffee. When it came time for his lunch break, his dad grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him to his cruiser. He raised a brow at Stiles’ fidgeting and shaking hands, and muttered something about cutting Stiles off from all coffee for the rest of forever.

 

Stiles and the sheriff ate lunch together twice a week minimum, often dragging Derek along with them. Sometimes Scott even made it out of the office to grace them with his presence. It’s…nice. They all bicker about silly things, debate who’s sports team is better, whether a werewolf could beat a dragon in a fight, and make bets on how many times Mrs. Higgins will call about “nightly disturbances” that are just raccoons rummaging through her trash. Once in a while, when it’s just Stiles and his dad, they talk about Stiles’ “future” and how he can’t work the front desk forever. They have it down to a science: The Sheriff will remind Stiles that he is underemployed, antsy, and often downright dismissive at the sheriff’s station. Stiles will immediately get pissy and recalcitrant, and start jamming fries into his mouth and avoiding looking at his dad. The sheriff will sigh, pat Stiles on the shoulder, and table the discussion for another day.

 

Stiles doesn’t _want_ to stay at the station forever, but he’s still…figuring things out. He’ll find something to focus on soon; he just doesn’t know what it is yet. But being so aimless, and so goddamn _bored_ all of the time makes Stiles listless. And grumpy. Like _really_ grumpy, enough that one afternoon his dad took him off the front desk and made him file cold cases in the basement for the rest of the day. Sometimes Stiles leaves work feeling like his skin is too tight, his chest constricting with his own apathy. Those are his bad days.

 

 

Today had been a _very_ bad day. His dad was out of town working a joint case with the county over, he’d only answered three calls all day, two of which were stupid prank calls, and Derek had been an even bigger asshole than usual. When Stiles had tried to alleviate his boredom by bothering Derek, he had growled and shoved him into the wall. When Stiles started making paperclip chains to lasso things off of Derek’s desk and onto the floor, Derek’s scowl turned into a smirk and he started ribbing Stiles about his major, a blatant sore spot for Stiles. There’s a lot of dumb shit out there about religion majors, and Derek always relishes throwing them in Stiles’ face after he’s been particularly annoying. Jokes about it being a ‘coffee-shop’ major, a ‘poor man’s’ major, jokes about Stiles going to divinity school, or being too dumb to major in biology or economics. Every single day Derek reminds Stiles that he can be just as much of an asshole as Stiles is. Some days this is hilarious and refreshing, and some days it makes his blood boil.

 

Stiles was sufficiently pissed when he drove home, and slammed his way into his apartment. Rod, stupid furball, immediately started wailing for food and nipped Stiles’ ankles until Stiles threw food in a bowl, and then the bowl at Rod. His hands shook a bit as he took his work clothes off, the world seeming to press in tighter and tighter around him, so he went for a run. As he made his way passed suburban Beacon Hills a headache began to press up behind his eyes. So Stiles ran faster. He ran through the preserve, over fallen logs, and across a small creek until his legs felt wobbly and burned with fatigue. He collapsed onto a tree stump, and watched squirrels scuttle around the trees, slowed his breath and listened to a couple of birds chatter. He had just begun to clamber to his feet when he felt a sharp pain in his head, causing him to stumble, and then collapse. Then everything went black.


	2. Tough Love

Stiles came to with a groan. He was in a crumpled heap on the ground of the preserve, bruised and dazed. He only pulled himself upright when the buzzing of his phone became incessant, and answered it with a quiet “Hello?”

 

“Stiles Stilinski, where the _hell_ are you??” Stiles winced.

 

“Oh, hey Lydia…” He tried to hide the tremor in his voice, but knew he hadn’t fooled Lydia when she got suspiciously quiet, and then gently asked,

 

“Stiles? What’s going on? Where are you?” And, shit. He had totally forgotten that he was supposed to pick Lydia up to go over to Scott’s house for dinner.

 

“I’m on my way, don’t worry, I’m just getting back from a run. I didn’t forget!! I’ll be there in 20.”

 

“Stiles, you completely forgot you idiot, are you in the middle of the preserve?? There’s no way you can shower on time—“

 

“20 minutes, Lyds. I’ll be there.” Stiles hung up. He knew Lydia would be pissed, but there was a low throb behind his left eye and he needed to figure out where the hell he had parked his Jeep. Stiles checked his watch, and cursed at the time. He raced home, and pushed his little incident to the back of his mind.

 

When Stiles pulled up to Lydia’s house they were 25 minutes late for dinner with Scott, and Lydia looked _pissed._ “Stiles how could you forget dinner? We’ve had it planned all week, I can’t believe you.” Lydia slammed her car door shut and shot Stiles a scathing look. Stiles sighed. Lydia hated being late, and it was usually Stiles’ fault if she ever was.

 

“I’m sorry, Lyd, I had a _really_ bad day at work and I had to run some energy off.” Lydia pursed her lips at him, but must have seen that he was genuinely upset. She turned to the radio and played with the stations, an unspoken forgiveness in the softening of her facial expression as she began to tell Stiles about a new piece of research she had stumbled upon that day.

 

Stiles felt a familiar pain pressing up against his eyes, and clenched his teeth. It was just a headache. They still had a few miles to go before arriving at Scott’s where he could pop some ibuprophen. Stiles’ hands shook where he was gripping the wheel, and he hoped that Lydia was distracted enough by her story that she wouldn’t notice. But then his vision tunneled, focus going in and out. It felt like he had only blinked, but suddenly Lydia had the wheel and was shrieking in his ears.

 

“Stiles!! Stiles what the hell, what is going on!!” Lydia jerked the car to the side of the road, quickly threw it into park, and then gently turned Stiles’ head to face her. Stiles blinked dazedly as Lydia’s concerned face faded in and out of focus.

 

“Stiles?” She called softly, hands cradling his face. With a tremendous amount of effort Stiles blinked her back into focus, and forced a grin onto his face.

 

“M’okay, Lyd. Just a migraine, I think. I just gotta take some painkillers, I’ll be fine.” Lydia scoffed derisively at his reassurances, but was gentle when she shepherded him out of the drivers seat and into the back of the car. When Stiles resisted lying down, insisting that he was _fine, Lydia, geez,_ she was decidedly less gentle in shoving him into a sprawl on the back seats. Stiles spent the rest of the drive listening to Lydia murmur about her research, hands pressed to his temples as if he could massage the pain away. When Stiles got to Scott’s he downed a few painkillers, and ignored Lydia’s concerned looks throughout the night. If the pain meds weren’t going to work he was going to get rid of this headache through sheer force of will. Scott, the brick wall that he is, didn’t notice Lydia’s glares or Stiles’ winces at every raised voice or bright light, and it wasn’t until late at night that Stiles was able to escape back to his lovely dark and quiet apartment and collapse onto his bed. Maybe his headache would be gone by the morning.

 

….

 

Stiles keeps having migraines, some less debilitating than the first, some so bad that they leave him throwing up all he’s eaten that day, shaking and panting on the floor of the bathroom. The third time he ran to the bathroom to throw up at work his dad looked at his shaking hands, pale and scared, and asked him if he was okay. Stiles plastered a grin on his face and gave his dad a goofy salute and a false promise. He could feel his dad’s worried gaze on his back for the rest of the day and made sure to swallow a handful of pain meds when his dad was out on a call. He knew his headaches reminded him of his mom. Hell, every time Stiles felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes he couldn’t help but remember his mom, shaking and screaming on the floor of the kitchen.

 

When Stiles was ten his mom started getting headaches. It started with a hand to the temple and a bit more TV time for Stiles after school, until eventually she would have to call over a neighbor to watch Stiles while she lay in her bed in the dark. Then she started to scream at night, terrible nightmares that brought Stiles running into his parent’s room only to be pushed back to his room by his frantic father. His mother would have fainting spells and wake up babbling, and the hospital couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Suddenly she stopped having nightmares, and Stiles would jump into her bed in the morning to wake her only for her to suddenly jolt awake, gasping for breath. A week later she died in her sleep. Sleep apnea, the doctors said, and shook their heads sadly.

 

Stiles knows that his dad has been checking with his neighbors, “casually” asking if Stiles has been making any noise during the night. He knows that his dad is just waiting for some sign that Stiles is going to start freaking out, just like his mom did, and vows not to worry him anymore than he already has. Even Scott seems worried about him, but Stiles just tells him that he has the flu. Scott believes him, he learned how to lie to Scott’s werewolf senses years ago, but he knows Derek isn’t convinced when he continues to frown at Stiles. Whatever, they’re just headaches. He doesn’t need Scott worried about nothing, and he certainly doesn’t need Derek’s concerned scowl at work.

 

_All Stiles can see is green foliage, vague and a little blurry. He thinks he might be in the preserve, but he can't tell. He hears a woman's voice calling out to him, and feels muddled and confused, but feels a tug, a compulsion to follow the voice. He takes a few faltering steps, and then hears the rustle of a large...something, dragging itself behind him. Time seems to slow as Stiles turns his head and looks straight into a pair of bright green eyes._

Stiles jolts awake, gasping for breath. He can’t remember what he was dreaming about, just feels panic clawing up his throat. He spends the rest of the night watching reruns of Gilmore Girls, and telling himself that nightmares are common for people who have seen as much horrible shit as he has. He also might count his fingers once or twice, just to be sure, the specter of the Nogitsune never far from his mind.

 

….

 

The next day at work Stiles knows he looks like shit, dark bags under his eyes, and he doesn’t really appreciate everyone telling him how terrible he looks.

 

“Stiles. You look—“

 

“OH MY GOD, I _know_ I look like shit, Jesus! Lay off, alright??” Parrish looks shocked; staring back at Stiles like he’d started growing a second head.

 

“…You alright there, bud? I was just going to say that you looked like you could use a snack…” He brandishes a bag of chips at Stiles, still looking a bit freaked out.

 

“Sorry, Jordan, I’m fine I was just up late last night watching TV and _everyone keeps telling me I look like garbage._ Didn’t mean to snap at you…” Stiles faded off, sheepish.

 

Jordan just smiled at him, pressed the bag of chips into his hands, ruffled his hair, and walked away.

 

“I’m only three years younger than you, D-bag!!” Stiles shouted at his retreating back. Someone cleared their throat, and Stiles looked up to Derek’s unimpressed eyebrows. Stiles just flipped him off, and turned back to his desk, too quickly to see the grin Derek hid behind a cough.

 

_He’s walking through the preserve. He doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s looking for, just keeps walking until he trips over a root, and tumbles down a hill. When he rolls to a stop, he’s at the nemeton. He crawls on his knees, and reaches out to the stump. When his hand touches the center of the tree, he feels a pulse of energy. The nemeton begins to glow; brighter and brighter until it’s all Stiles can see. He’s consumed by it._

Stiles blinks awake to the sound of his phone alarm, eyes stinging. He slept through the whole night but he didn’t feel…rested. Shaking off any lingering feelings of uneasiness, he stumbles to the shower to get ready for his day. It’s Saturday, his day off, and AS AN ADULT, he has errands to run. Rod paws at his ankles as he makes coffee, meowing loudly for food, and generally getting in Stiles’ way. After feeding Rod, and _then_ himself, goddamn cat, he opens the door and walks straight into Lydia. She neatly sidesteps him, and in his surprise Stiles almost takes a header off of his front steps.

 

When he gathers his wits and whips around to gape at Lydia she’s smirking smugly and examining her nails.

 

“What the fuck, Lydia!! I almost broke my freaking face!”

 

“Oh calm down, Stiles, I was about to knock when you came bursting out. It’s not _my_ fault you have all of the grace of an elephant.” Stiles just scowled at her in response, until Lydia sighed and strode forward to grab his hand. With a light squeeze she said, “I am sorry I startled you. Now come on, or we’ll be late.” And with that she began pulling him towards her car, heedless of his protests.

 

“Lydia! Lydia where are we going?? Lydia, stop, I have to go to the grocery store, c’mon let gooooooooo.”

 

When they reach her car and Stiles is still whining about all the dry cleaning he still needs to pick up, Lydia whips around to face him and scowls.

 

“Stiles Stilinski I know something is going on with you, and I know you won’t tell anyone because you’re a self-sacrificing moron. But so long as you keep your idiotic silence about whatever is going on with you, you are going to let me take you out, and you are going to _like it._ And then when you get your head out of your ass and tell me what all the headaches and shaking are about, I will sit down and I will figure this all out. Like I always do. Until then, we are getting smoothies, manicures, and massages. Then you will take me out to dinner and tell me what the fuck is wrong with you. Understood?”

 

It’s moments like these when Stiles remembers vividly why he was in love with Lydia for so long. She takes _absolutely no shit_ , and now that they actually have a real relationship, she’s one of the best friends Stiles has ever had. He lets her push him into the passenger seat of her car, and take him out for the day. Maybe he does need to relax, maybe all these headaches are from stress and lack of sleep and a massage will do him wonders.

 

….

 

Stiles feels more relaxed than he’s been in years as he sits in the nice restaurant Lydia strong-armed him into choosing, admiring the blue nail polish Lydia chose for him. Lydia is ordering wine for them, Stiles trusting in her superior knowledge to make a good choice, and he’s suddenly fiercely grateful that Lydia has no boundaries and dragged his ass all over town all day. He really needed it.

 

She corners him once the breadsticks arrive.

 

“Alright Stilinski. What’s going on?” Stiles sighs and looks down at the table, sullenly ripping a breadstick in half.

 

“I get migraines and the shakes, y’know, stuff that can be induced by stress. Not a big deal, I guess I’m just freaking out about my life. My stupid job, my dumb cat, y’know. Adult stuff…?”

 

Lydia raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

 

“Lydia” Stiles implores, just wanting her to drop the subject. He’s totally fine.

 

“Stiles. Scott keeps texting me asking if I think “something is up” with you, and I know the sheriff has been asking around to see if you’ve been acting weird. Even Derek has asked me if you’re okay.” Stiles scoffs, always uncomfortable with people digging into his personal life, but Lydia silences him with her hand on his arm. “Stiles…I know your mom wasn’t well before she died.” Stiles stiffens, and Lydia puts more pressure on his arm. He looks up. “Is this the same thing? You really didn’t seem well in the car that day, and if it’s only getting worse you need to _tell someone_. I don’t care if it’s me, but so help me if you refuse to ask for help and get seriously hurt there will be hell to pay.” Stiles quirks a small smile at her, warmed by her characteristically abrasive concern.

 

“I…don’t know if it’s the same thing. As my mom. I, uh, the headaches aren’t always so bad. Sometimes they just feel like stress headaches, and they go away with some pain meds. Sometimes they hurt so badly, but they always go away. I read online, and I think they might be stress migraines. But…” He trails off, unsure if he wants to talk about how he wakes up almost every night sure that he’s had some sort of important dream, but he can never quite remember.

 

“There’s something else, isn’t there? What else is happening Stiles?” Lydia is looking at him intently, and Stiles finds himself leaning forward and telling her about how these dreams feel like they’re on the tip of his tongue, but somehow always out of reach. Lydia looks intrigued, but concerned, annoyed at Stiles for keeping these feelings to himself for weeks.

 

“You need to get an MRI.”

 

“Lydia, I’m fine, I don’t need an MRI—“

 

“Stiles, we need to rule out the possibility that this is a neurological issue, and for that you need—“

 

“Lydia, I’m not going to the hospital. These are stress induced issues, and—“

 

“Stiles Stilinski I know you’re not this dense! You need to go in for testing—“

 

“ _I can’t afford to get an MRI Lydia. Drop it!!”_ The restaurant goes quiet at Stiles’ outburst, and he cringes when he sees people are staring. Lydia stomps on his foot and Stiles turns back to look at her incredulously.

 

“Then I will pay for it! I don’t care how much of a bill you charge, you moron, I just care that you’re alright!” Lydia huffs in annoyance, upset about being pushed to lose her cool in public, but Stiles feels his eyes start to water and grabs her hands.

 

“I love you, you know that right?” Lydia rolls her eyes, but smiles and squeezes Stiles’ hands back.

 

“We’re calling the doctor’s office tomorrow and scheduling an appointment. Now lets go, I’ve put my research off long enough.”

 

Lydia drops Stiles off at his house with a brisk kiss on the cheek, and Stiles grabs his grocery list before hopping in the Jeep. He might as well get one of his planned errands done that day. As he’s driving to the grocery store, his head starts to throb, a low and steady pain. It doesn’t feel like one of the debilitating migraines, so he squares his shoulders and keeps driving to the store. He’s out of milk, and these stupid headaches aren't going to keep him from eating cereal tomorrow. That, somehow, would be the last straw.

 

As he’s debating the merits of sourdough versus wheat bread the low throb turns into an acute, piercing pain and he staggers into his cart. The room starts to spin and Stiles grabs blindly at the shelves for balance, but feels his knees give out and slides to the floor. The last thing he remembers is an older woman grasping at his hands, her panicked voice distant.

 

_Suddenly he’s back in the preserve and he’s running. Once again he hears a woman’s voice calling out to him, and he’s frantic to follow. He races through the foliage, branches cutting at his cheeks and breath short in his chest. He has to follow that voice, has to find who’s calling to him. There’s a shape up ahead, and is it a man? He’s getting closer, and suddenly he’s looking into a pair of vivid green eyes. He feels frozen, the eyes piercing into his very soul. His breathe stops in his chest._


	3. Go Home, You're Drunk

A hand is gripping Stiles’ tightly, another running gently through his hair. He leans into the touch, groggy and sluggish. The hand stills for a moment before starting to pet him again.

 

“Stiles. Wake up, buddy. C’mon and open your eyes.” Stiles scrunches his nose, reluctant to wake up, but recognizes the tired croak of his dads voice.

 

He slowly blinks his eyes open and whines softly at the bright light, which makes his dad chuckle softly and shield Stiles’ eyes with his hands. Stiles takes stock: he’s obviously in the hospital, the sterile smell and gently reclined bed obvious giveaways. The throbbing of his wrist lets him know that he probably did something to deserve being there.

 

He turns his head and looks up at his dad, who shoots him an exhausted smile.

 

“Heya daddio. What’s shakin’?”

 

His dad laughs and buries his head in his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

 

“Oh kiddo. What _am_ I going to do with you?” Stiles frowns at the strain in his dad’s voice, and feels instantly guilty. He had tried _so hard_ not to worry his dad, and now here they are.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Jesus, Stiles, why don’t you tell me? A woman at the grocery store says that one minute you were reaching for bread and the next you had collapsed and were unresponsive. She called you an ambulance and then waited with you. She also said you were trembling, and kept saying ‘no’.” He broke off, giving Stiles his best ‘interrogation’ face. Stiles doesn’t have the energy to lie to him.

 

“I…I don’t know, dad, I was just shopping when my head started to hurt and then…nothing. I guess I fell and then I ended up here.”

 

His dad levels Stiles with a searching look and is about to respond when Melissa bustles in with his chart. She gives him a severe look, but then breaks into a grin and steps forward to ruffle his hair.

 

“I’m glad you’re okay, honey. Now lets talk about what’s been going on with you.” Stiles sighs, but quails under Melissa’s glare.

 

“Uh, yeah, I’ve been getting headaches for a few weeks now. Some of them are minor, some are pretty bad.” His Dad scowls at him and Stiles winces, and then looks down at his hands where they’re pulling at the threads of his blanket. “I was starting to get one in the grocery store and I guess I just collapsed. I don’t really remember anything significant happening, just pain,” he says, gesturing to his head. Melissa jots down a few notes, and then announces,

 

“I’ve scheduled you for an MRI in an hour and half so we can get a look at what’s going on in that head of yours, honey. In the meantime you need to keep drinking water, and tell Scott to calm down. He’s been out there bouncing off the walls for _hours_.” Stiles chuckles fondly, and hears footsteps skid to a halt in front of his room. The sheriff rolls his eyes and says,

 

“Come on in Scott, you’ve obviously been listening the whole time.” Scott bursts in through the door, a goofy grin on his face. He rushes to Stiles’ side and throws his arms around his neck. Stiles hugs him back fiercely, breathing in the comfort of his best friend.

 

“Hey dude,” he mumbles into Scott’s shoulder. Scott’s “hey” back is muffled in Stiles’ hair where he is very blatantly scenting him.

 

Scott stays with Stiles and the sheriff while they wait for the MRI, playing along with ‘Cash Cab’ on the TV and forcing water down Stiles’ throat. Too soon it’s time for the MRI, and despite himself Stiles starts shaking. He remembers having to wait in the waiting room while his mom had countless tests done, how she would seem so exhausted when she came back out to bring him home. His dad grabs the back of his neck in a firm grip as Melissa pushes his wheelchair to the MRI room, and Stiles takes a deep breath.

 

He fucking hates the MRI. He’s put on a tiny slab and pushed into a dark hole, and told to be completely still, something he’s never accomplished once in his entire life. Occasionally the technician asks him to tap his thumb against his fingers and answer some questions, which quickly become the only things that keep him from going out of his freaking mind. He’s still shaking when they slide him out of the machine, and Melissa slowly rubs his back as he takes deep breaths to calm down.

 

Three hours later Lydia has joined Scott and Stiles in Stiles’ room, the three of them playing a game of cards while NCIS plays quietly in the background. The sheriff left to go back to the station, his shift not over for a few more hours. Melissa comes bustling back into the room holding a large folder, and begins to pull brain scans out. There’s nothing wrong with him, no swelling, no damage, no discoloration. Nothing in the MRI. Lydia frowns at the scans, but Scott cheers.

 

“That means that maybe they are just from stress!”

 

“Maybe…” Melissa murmurs also scrutinizing the MRI results.

 

They let Stiles go home, and life goes back to normal. He still get headaches a few times a week, but he gets better at hiding them, better at pushing through the day until he can go collapse in his bed and hide from the world. Bags appear under his eyes, seeming to grow darker and darker each day. A cup of strong coffee starts to appear on his desk every morning when he gets into work and Derek blushes when Stiles shoots him a grateful grin. “It’s nothing,” he mumbles when Stiles enthusiastically thanks him, studiously avoiding Stiles’ gaze.

 

At night he dreams in fragments, always waking up unable to recall just what had made him so scared or uneasy. Then one night he remembers.

 

_The leaves rustle as he pushes through the trees. A small shape is moving in front of him, shrill giggles echoing back. He thinks it’s a child. He stumbles over logs and down a hill, going deeper and deeper into the woods. The child freezes, and looks to the left. The forest grows silent. Stiles can’t turn his head, stuck staring at the back of the child. Suddenly something reaches out and grabs the kid, dragging it back into the darkness. Someone starts to scream. Moving through what feels like cement Stiles makes his way to where the kid used to stand and strains to turn his head. Shaking, he turns and looks directly into a pair of luminous green eyes. He feels a presence coming closer to him, hears the rustle of a huge body. The eyes grow closer, and closer, stealing the breath from Stiles’ lungs. He can no longer hear the child._

Stiles gasps awake, hands grasping for the child in his dreams. He shudders as he remembers the green eyes, looks out his window terrified that he’ll see them staring back at him, watching. It takes a few minutes for his pulse to slow, the echoes of the scream ringing in his ears. His clock blinks 4:00 am at him from his bedside table. Sleep isn’t an option anymore, so Stiles hops in the shower then heads downstairs to the kitchen. As he’s starting the coffee maker his cats pads into the kitchen with a _mrrrooww_ causing Stiles to jump in fright.

 

“Goddamn hairball, sneaking up on me…” he mutters as he pours his coffee. He walks around his entire kitchen and living room, turning on every light before throwing himself down onto the couch to watch TV before work.

 

When he gets into work the atmosphere is tense. His usual coffee is waiting for him at his desk, but Derek is nowhere to be seen, making Stiles frown. He pops into his dad’s office, where an exhausted looking sheriff weakly greets him.

 

“What’s the happs, pops?”

 

His dad sighs, and gestures for Stiles to take a seat.

 

“You remember Mrs. O'Shaughnessy? Your fourth grade teacher? Well her son Charlie disappeared last night and is nowhere to be found. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy thinks he wandered off into the woods, but I’m never too sure about that in this town. I sent Derek out to use his…special skills to look for the boy.”

 

Stiles breaks into a cold sweat. “H-how old is Charlie, exactly?”

 

“He’s a ten year old boy. His mom last saw him when she put him to bed last night—“ Stiles stops listening as his dad keeps rattling off details, dread beginning to build in his stomach. What if…what if he saw what happened to Charlie last night? _Could_ his dream have been real? No, Stiles has only ever been purely human. Why on earth would his dream have had anything to do with this? The kid was probably just lost in the woods, an unfortunate but wonderfully mundane problem.

 

“--Stiles? Hey kid, are you listening to me? Is your head bothering you??” Stiles tunes back in to his panicky father just in time to stop him from leaping out of his chair.

 

“Sorry, no dad I’m fine. Just spaced out for a moment.” His dad sighs in relief, but still eyes him with wary concern. Stiles brushes off his concern, mind still racing. “Can I take off? I really want to help in the search, maybe head home and do some research just in case this is, uh, special.” His dad has barely said yes before Stiles is racing out of the station, making a beeline for his Jeep. He pulls out of the parking lot but instead of driving home begins to speed to Deaton’s. He just needs to make sure.

 

He bursts into Deaton’s just as the vet is handing back a very disgruntled looking poodle. The dog startles and barks at Stiles, it’s owner sending him a dirty look. He waits impatiently as Deaton bids the owner goodbye, and scoffs as he reminds them to come back for the next set of shots. As soon as the door to the office swings shut Stiles blows past Deaton into his office, calling back “You might want to flip the sign to closed, doc, I’ve got quite a conundrum!” He hears Deaton sigh and suppresses a grin. He knows he’s being pushy, but messing with Deaton is just too fun to pass up.

 

“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Stilinski?”

 

Stiles describes his headaches and fumbles through an explanation of his restless and unsettling nights. Then he tells Deaton about the green eyes and the missing child, his voice cracking when he describes the way the dream had gripped him.

 

“Could it—“ he breaks off, blushing, but determined to find some answers. “Could it have been Charlie? Could my dream have been real?”

 

Deaton looks at him pensively and then turns around to rummage through a filing cabinet. Stiles waits, agitated, his fingers drumming against his legs. He’s distractedly drumming _Eye of the Tiger_ when Deaton sets a book down in front of him with a _thump._

 

“Mr. Stilinski, could you describe the exact progress of your condition? Walk me through the very first headache, to your most recent dream.”

 

Stiles, eyes screwed tight in concentration, painstakingly recounts every headache he can remember, every morning jolting awake with no memory of what he had just seen. Deaton ‘hmmms’ and nods, slowly turning the pages of the tome in front of him. Stiles is exhausted when he finishes, and he starts to feel sort of…stupid. Of course his dreams don’t mean anything, who is he kidding. He’s just a human. The longer Deaton remains silent the closer Stiles gets to slinking out of the office and barricading himself in his room for a few weeks. Maybe years.

 

Just as Stiles has started to ease out of his chair Deaton stops him with a hand on his arm and a bemused smile.

 

“Do you remember what I told you in high school? When you first learned to manipulate mountain ash?”

 

Stiles shifts uncomfortably. “Be the spark.”

 

“Precisely. It takes a spark to animate mountain ash and manipulate it to your will. While I had believed this to be the extent of your ability, a spark can manifest itself in a variety of…interesting ways. We can’t yet know the exact form your, well for lack of a better word ‘magic’ will take. But I can safely say that what you are experiencing is not a normal phenomenon. I can give you something for the pain, but I believe that your spark is in the process of manifesting and you will continue to experience these episodes. I ask that you keep me informed about your condition and come back should you experience any significant changes. As for your dreams—“ Stiles shot back up to attention from where he had been slumped in his seat—“I believe that there was some truth to your dream. I don’t know if it was a premonition, merely symbolic, or a lived experience. You may very well have seen something of the utmost importance, or nothing at all. We cannot know yet.” Stiles snorted at that, and began massaging his temples. He had a headache coming on.

 

Deaton pressed a bag of strongly smelling herbs into his hands and told him to brew it in a tea whenever his head started to hurt and it would relieve some of his symptoms. As Stiles was walking out the door, he turned around and hesitantly asked “Dr. Deaton?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Stilinski?”

 

“Did you know my mother?”

 

Deaton paused where he was putting away his books. “Yes. She was a lovely woman.”

 

Stiles took a deep breath. “Did she…” He has to clear the lump in his throat. “Was she like me?”

 

Deaton turns around and levels Stiles a searching look. “You mean was she a spark?” Stiles nods. Deaton gestures for Stiles to sit back down with a sigh.

 

“For a long time the Hales were the only people in Beacon Hills that actively engaged in the supernatural. As you know, I was the emissary to the Hale pack. We had contact with packs outside of our town, but Beacon Hills was…quiet. Occasionally a pack would travel through, or we would receive visiting witches and druids. There’s always been an energy here.”

 

“The nemeton.” Stiles murmurs, and Deaton nods.

 

“When a druid becomes an emissary for a werewolf pack they become connected to the energy of the land. When I became the Hales’ emissary I could sense the ley lines. This means I could sense when your mothers spark awoke.”

 

“So my mom was a spark?? Why…” Stiles didn’t even know what he wanted to ask. Why hadn’t he known? Why had no one told him??

 

Why did she die?

 

Deaton clears his throat gently.

 

“She had a small spark, much like you did at first, though hers did not manifest until a few years before you were born.”

 

“Did she know? Did she know she was…wasn’t normal?”

 

“Not at first. I believe that the magic in your family evolves as it matures. I don’t know precisely how your mother’s spark operated, but a few years before you were born young Laura Hale disappeared and Talia could not find her. Your mother showed up out of the blue and knew precisely where Laura was. She had been running in the preserve and had fallen down a decline, trapping her leg so she was unable to heal and run home. I never knew how your mother found her. But from then on she knew about the Hales, and—“

 

“She knew?? She knew about werewolves?! And you! Did she know about you??” What the actual fuck! How many more secrets were there in this godforsaken town?? He’s sure his father never knew about werewolves, considering how comically shocked he was senior year of high school. That means that not only was his mom magic and somehow _friends_ with the goddamn Hales, but that she kept it from his dad. Like mother like son, he thought bitterly. And then it hit him. He jumped out of his seat and stalked over to Deaton, shoving him into the desk.

 

“Why did you let her suffer in the hospital??? Why did the Hales do _nothing_ while she had MRI after MRI, while they took hundreds of blood samples and charged us thousands of dollars? _Where were you when she died?_ ” Deaton did nothing to stop Stiles from grabbing his shirt and shaking him.

 

“We didn’t know, Stiles.” Deaton said, gently pulling Stiles’ hands away from his shirt. “You’re mother was a proud woman. She did not approach me until the doctors gave up. Only then did she consider that her condition might be supernatural.”

 

“But she…she used to _scream_ at night, Deaton. How could that be a spark?” He’s breathing hard and Deaton ushers him back into his chair. In a small voice he asks, “Is that what’s going to happen to me?”

 

“Not if I can help it, Mr. Stilinski. Sparks are mysterious, I’m sure you can now attest to that better than anyone, but a core rule of all magic is control. I am _so_ sorry for your loss, Stiles, but I do believe that your mother’s condition was caused by a spark allowed to grow wild and violent. You can harness your ability, with training, and—“

 

But Stiles stopped listening. How could his mother’s death, so horrible and drawn out, have been so unbelievably stupid? So unnecessary. Goddamn the supernatural in this town, and goddamn Dr. Deaton and his fucking apology 12 years too late. Angry and confused, Stiles ran out of Deaton’s office, ignoring the calls of his name that followed him out.

 

He ends up in the graveyard, wandering. He has a flask in his hand filled with cheap whiskey, but can’t quite get himself to drink any. Getting drunk would be _so nice_ compared to sitting with his memories of his mom, but his dad had always instilled in him that people who got wasted and wandered around public property were assholes. _What a fucking cliché_ , he thinks bitterly.

 

His back is numb where it’s pressed against his mom’s gravestone when his phone finally runs out of battery. Maybe it got tired of ignoring dozens of calls. 20 minutes later half the flask is gone, and his throat burns. Stiles has always known he’s an asshole. He thought he’d always known he was human, but apparently the nogitsune wasn’t enough, now he has to have stupid, debilitating visions to fit in with his little gang of goddamn Twilight misfit friends. The rest of the flask is gone now. He might be a little bit drunk.

 

He’s leaning his head back with his eyes closed, humming a made-up tune when he feels a sharp pain in his arm.

 

_Thwunk._

Another sharp pain, this time right in the forehead. Someone is throwing…rocks at him?

 

“What the fuck??” Stiles mutters, sitting up and blearily looking around. Scott is stalking angrily towards him from the parking lot, bending down to grab a rock, before whipping it at Stiles. This one hits him in the chest, and stings sharply. Stiles is too bewildered to come up with a response and just watches wide-eyed as Scott marches up to him.

 

“Where the hell have you been, Stiles?? What the fuck were you thinking, not answering your phone? Your dad has been freaking out, the pack has all been out searching for you, and has been for _hours!!_ ” Scott screams at Stiles, madder than Stiles has seen him in years.

 

Scott pauses, sniffs, and then his eyes flash red. In a deadly voice he asks, “ _Have you been drinking??_ ”

 

Stiles winces, and looks away. He doesn’t need to see the disappointment etched on Scott’s puppy-dog face, doesn’t think he can really handle it any day, let alone today.

 

Scott is apparently having none of Stiles’ bullshit, because not a minute goes by before a hand is grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up. Expecting to see the glowing eyes of a royally pissed off alpha, Stiles winces when he sees the disappointment and sadness in Scott’s usually twinkling brown eyes.

 

“What the hell Stiles?” Scott asks softly, crouching down in front of where Stiles is slumped. “What has been going on with you lately, man? You’re really freaking me out.”

 

Stiles slumps forward into Scott, body feeling warm from the whisky but oddly detached, like his entire body has fallen asleep leaving his mind behind.

 

“M’sorry.” He slurs quietly into Scott’s shoulder, ashamed at his own drinking, ashamed that he made his friends worry and that once again they had to go on some sort of fucked up wild goose chase to find him. Scott cradles his head gently and cards his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

 

“I talked to Deaton. He told me about the dreams.” Scott tells him, rearranging Stiles so that he is propped against Scott’s shoulder, head leaning against Scott’s neck. Stiles lets out a humorless chuckle, unsurprised that Deaton went over his head to Scott. Hell, Deaton may have made Stiles’ life easier. Less shit to explain.

 

“Why didn’t you tell anyone, dude? We knew you weren’t okay because of the headaches, but this is serious bro.” Stiles struggles into a sitting position.

 

“I didn’t think…” Scott scoffs in agreement, and Stiles scowls at him. “Scott. I didn’t want to make anyone worry. Not until I was sure, you know? I didn’t know if it was just me being a fuck up, or whatever. I didn’t think it was anything until this last time. This last dream…” Stiles trails off, green eyes filling his mind until he faintly registers that Scott has begun to speak again.

 

“…and then Lydia told us that you had almost crashed the car, and Derek said that you look dead on your feet at work everyday—“

 

“I don’t need you all to butt into my personal life, and I certainly don’t need you all to baby me” Stiles’ spits out angrily, trying to push himself to his feet so he can stomp away. Instead of gracefully springing to his feet, Stiles gets one foot under him before tipping drunkenly into another gravestone. Scott pulls Stiles to his feet before he can even begin to untangle the mess he has made of his legs, but doesn’t let go once Stiles is upright.

 

Scott gets right up into Stiles’ face and sneers angrily, “Shut the fuck up Stiles! You don’t fucking get it, do you??” Stiles has only heard Scott swear this much a handful of other times, and is shocked into silence. “We care about you, you idiot! And you have been running around pale as death and completely unwilling to share anything with any of us! We are your goddamn _pack_ and you were hurting and wouldn’t let us help. So I’m so fucking sorry if you have been worried about us “butting in” or whatever, but you can just check your fucking ego at the door mister!” And here Scott notices he’s begun to slip more from angry friend into angry dad, and gives Stiles a little shake to emphasize the point.

 

Stiles is speechless. Scott’s righteous anger has left him panting and his eyes glowing bright red. Before Stiles can muster up the words to fight back, Scott begins to drag him towards the cemetery gates.

 

“Scott. Scott! Where are we—“

 

“We are going to Derek’s loft where we will _as a pack_ figure this out. Deaton is there catching them up on your conversation. On the way there we are going to McDonald’s where you will drink a large black coffee, you will sober up, and you will grow the fuck up. Understood?”

 

Scott looks so thunderous, his words so aggressively chastising and protective, that Stiles can’t help it. He laughs. And he laughs _hard._ So hard that tears are streaming down his face, his voice hiccupping out of him as he hoots and howls. Scott just gives Stiles a small smile, and pulls Stiles close when the guffaws turn into short sobs.

 

“I’m sorry.” Stiles sniffles into Scotts neck. “I’m so sorry. I thought I could handle it, thought that if I just rode the wave that it would go away. I didn’t _want_ this Scott. I don’t want to ‘be the spark’, or whatever the fuck Deaton always preaches at me. Don’t want to be anymore trouble” he whispers.

 

Scott cuffs him in the back of the head roughly, but then squeezes Stiles tighter as he whispers back fiercely “you aren’t any trouble, you stupid idiot. At least not any trouble that we can’t handle. And Stiles?” Stiles looks up, questioning. “Go home, you’re drunk.” Scott grins goofily at a gobsmacked Stiles, and spends the rest of the journey back to the Jeep snorting at his own joke and ignoring protests that Stiles can walk on his own. When Stiles almost eats shit tripping over a decorative bench, Scott just grins smugly at him.


	4. The Jig is Up

Stiles is restless with nerves by the time they pull up to Derek’s loft. The pack is going to be _pissed_ that he kept this from them, Lydia especially. Scott, sensing Stiles nerves, had kept up a litany of harmless chatter the entire ride there, and Stiles smiled at him gratefully as they pulled up to the curb.

 

“Well,” he said, turning to Scott, “time to face the music.” But before he could even unbuckle his seatbelt his door was wrenched open and he was being dragged out.

 

“Stiles Stilinski you absolute moron!” Shrieked Lydia.

 

“Heeeeey Lydia” Stiles smiled goofily at her, hoping to lessen her wrath. Instead she sniffed delicately, and then froze, anger written clearly on her face.

 

“ _Are you drunk??_ ” She hissed. Stiles blanched.

 

“You’re not even a werewolf! How could you possible have smelled that??”

 

“I don’t need to be a werewolf to see that clearly you were responding with the emotional range of boulder, per usual might I add, and—“

 

“Oh my god, enough!” Scott shouted, grabbing both Lydia and Stiles by the arm and dragging them towards the elevator. The ride up to Derek’s penthouse was awkward to say the least. Lydia spent the entire ride glaring venomously at Stiles while Stiles stared resolutely at his shoes. Scott huffed in annoyance every few seconds and time seemed to crawl.

 

Inside Derek’s loft he found his father sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. Stiles’ stomach dropped with guilt. Deaton was standing at the front of the room, clearly just having finished sharing his “wisdom” with the rest of the group. Derek was pacing restlessly in front of the window, while Kira watched on worried.

 

When Stiles walked in they all looked up, suddenly furious. All at once they began to yell at him.

 

“Stiles Stilinski you will answer your phone when I call from now on or so help me—“

 

“Stiles!! I was so worried, oh my gosh, I thought something terrible—“

 

“Stiles, goddammit! You had us all so worried!”

 

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut at the onslaught of sound and emotion, chest constricting with guilt. This was the last thing he wanted to happen.

 

“Enough!” Scott shouted, and the room fell into a reluctant silence. Stiles felt a rush of gratitude and smiled gratefully at Scott, who gave him a nod.

 

“So now that we’re all caught up we can start making a plan to move forward. Does anyone—“

 

“Excuse me? That’s it? Stiles needs to explain himself!” Lydia demanded.

 

“Stiles and I had a talk, and he understands that what he did—“ Scott tried to explain, but Lydia pushes past him.

 

“No. Explain it to _me._ Explain to me why I have been up late at night worrying about you, why we have all been watching you slowly lose it for the past few weeks with no way to help you, no reaching out, and the minute you begin to understand you disappear. Explain that to me, dammit!” Lydia’s lips are trembling and her eyes are glassy with unshed tears. Stiles stumbles his way over to Lydia, ignoring Kira’s confused “is he drunk??” in the background, and grabs Lydia in a hug.

 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers softly. Lydia deflates in his arms, but then rears back and punches him in the arm. Hard.

 

“Yeah? Well that’s for scaring me. And making me cry and ruin my makeup, you absolute Neanderthal. No go sit down and be yelled at by your father. He’s been waiting all night for a shot at you.” And with a prim sniff, she flounces off to go settle herself in Derek’s overstuffed armchair, her job apparently done. Reeling, Stiles stumbles over to the couch where is dad is looking at him with disappointment.

 

“Kiddo…” His dad sighs, and Stiles shuffles his feet and rubs at the back of his neck, ashamed. But rather than yell at him, the Sheriff just pulls Stiles down onto the couch next to him and knocks his shoulder against Stiles’. Stiles sags in relief but knows his dad well enough to know that this conversation isn’t over, just tabled until they can be alone.

 

The Sheriff cleared his throat drawing the attention off of Stiles once more.

 

“So this dream stuff. Could Stiles have really seen what happened to Charlie O’Shaughnessy? What does this mean?” The Sheriff asked.

 

“It would seem that there is a chance that Mr. Stilinski did in fact have a vision related to the missing child. But as I mentioned before, we cannot know for sure until his spark has manifested in a more concrete way. All we can do for now is keep a close eye on the visions and determine their meaning with more evidence. Mr. Stilinski, if you could recount your vision one more time please?” Deaton requested.

 

Stiles took a deep breath and noticed everyone staring at him with different levels of concern and anticipation. Stiles realizes that while Deaton had explained the general pattern of his visions, no one knows yet what exactly Stiles has been seeing. A headache begins to press against his eyes, and he rubs his temple absentmindedly as he explains the dreams.

 

“I’m in the forest somewhere, its not really clear, and there’s something up ahead of me. I think its Charlie. We’re walking and I hear something off in the shadows. Something big. It grabs Charlie and I can’t move or scream. I can barely turn my head, and when I do I see…I see…” A weird feeling starts to overcome Stiles, tingling that starts in the tips of his fingers and spreads its way to his chest. His breathing begins to slow, and he barely registers his dad grabbing his shoulders and shouting something as Stiles feels himself sink into the pain in his head.

 

_This time there is a female voice calling to Stiles. It’s so familiar, but he can’t place it. The voice reaches somewhere in the back of his mind and he knows that he needs to follow it. So he follows, trailing the tantalizing voice into the dark of the forest. He walks for what feels like hours until he registers the heavy drag of a large body. But its not coming from ahead of him. Its coming from behind him. A hand clasps Stiles’ shoulder and he--_

Stiles wakes up with a gasp, shooting into an upright position and knocking off the hands that had been holding him down. Stiles’ chest heaves as he struggles for air in the wake of his vision. The hand had felt completely real. Frantically he pulls the shoulder of his shirt down to check for a bruise but sees nothing but unmarred skin. Distantly he’s aware that Scott is shepherding everyone away from Stiles, telling them to “give him some space!” A gentle hand strokes his hair back from his sweaty forehead while someone presses a glass of water into his hand. He looks up just in time to see Derek’s small blush and quick retreat and feels his face heat up in response.

 

His dad peers into his face and asks, “You back with us kiddo?”

 

“Yeah, dad. I’m good” Stiles croaks, quickly putting the water to his lips and gratefully drinking the cool liquid.

 

“What did you see?” Scott asks him, looking worried.

 

“You just kept muttering ‘wait’” Lydia adds, reaching out to clasp one of Stiles’ hands in hers.

 

Stiles furrows his brows in concentration, trying to recall every detail of the vision.

 

“I was in the woods again. And there was this voice, and it was so familiar. I had to follow it. I went deep into the forest. It was so dark and suddenly the thing was there, and it grabbed me” he shudders. “It felt so real.” Stiles looks up at Deaton expectantly, at a loss for what this could mean for him. Why had it felt like the hand could easily have left a bruise on Stiles body? Was this the same creature that had grabbed Charlie?

 

Deaton looked pensive, and said “I do believe that your spark is giving you insights into real events. The next step is to try and understand what exactly it is you are seeing. Come to my office and we can consult some of my sources. In the meanwhile I would advise you to take some of the herbs I gave you to ease any lingering symptoms and to get some rest.” With a nod from the Sheriff Deaton swept out of the loft.

 

Stiles took Scott’s offered hand and hefted himself to his feet, only stumbling a bit as he found his footing. Exhaustion pulled at his bones, making his eyes droop. He was too tired to even put up a protest as Scott swept him into a fireman’s carry, asleep by the time they even reached the Sheriff’s cruiser.

 

Days go by, and Stiles has lots of small, mundane visions. He predicts rain, sees where his neighbor’s dog ran off to in the night, and has a vision of a breaking-and-entering as it’s happening. When he goes to the station for work the next day he’s able to point the perpetrators out in a line up. He doesn’t see any more green eyes.

 

All of these visions happen when he’s at his apartment alone or with Scott, but his father still takes away his keys. As much as he understands why it’s dangerous and fundamentally irresponsible to keep driving in his condition he still pouts for two days straight.

 

He has “daily meetings” with Scott and the Sheriff to go over his visions, often culminating in a silly argument when Stiles gets too uncomfortable with their overbearing concern. He had promised to tell them about all of his visions but he didn’t think that it would be such a herculean effort. He had not signed on to be squinted at for minutes at a time like he was about to suddenly drop dead or spontaneously combust. At maybe their ninth daily meeting (a few days in Stiles had figured out that counting these meetings was a surefire way to succumb to madness) his dad pulls Stiles aside at the end.

 

“Hey. I think that you need to take a leave of absence from the station.” That was his dad, everyone. Never one to mince words.

 

Frustrated, Stiles replied, “What?? Why?”

 

“Buddy. The bags under your eyes have bags. You can’t drive, so your hours are much less flexible. I know that these…’visions’ are making you stressed out, and I just want you to have enough time to take care of yourself.”

 

“Dad, I’m perfectly able to—“

 

“Stiles. To be honest, kid, it’s hard to watch you answer those phones on a good day, let alone when I can tell that you’ve only had about two hours of sleep. Go home.”

 

“I can’t just putter around my house all day waiting for my fucked up brain to inundate me with even more petty crimes and silly mysteries. I need to _do something_.”

 

His dad sighed. “Well you aren’t doing anything here.” Stiles flinched, uncomfortable with the reminder of how fucking useless his existence was at the Sheriff’s station, and his dad immediately looked guilty. “Hey, I didn’t mean that—“

 

“No. No, it’s okay. I get it. I’ll just keep on getting these horrifying flashes of other people’s lives, writing them down, and delivering you lunch everyday! Here I come, world!” Before his dad could argue back Stiles stormed out of the Sheriff’s office seething with anger and frustration. What was he supposed to do for the rest of his life? Suffer through these glimpses of other people’s trauma and try his best to forget them in the light of day?

 

As he was pushing his way past the front desk, his wonderful home away from home, he felt his fingertips start to tingle. Confused, he paused to look down at his hands. It was as he was gingerly trying to bend his fingers that the pain hit, and his knees buckled.

 

_He’s back in the woods, but the voice calling out to him is different this time. It’s no less gripping and before he knows it he’s following the voice deeper into the darkness. When the light starts to fade and it becomes hard to see Stiles reaches his hand out to feel for obstacles and is startled when the hand before him is old and wrinkled. It’s not his hand. Yet as the hand stretches out before him he realizes it_ is _his hand, or at least he has become whoever this person is, is seeing whatever they are seeing. A familiar shuffling sound comes from before him in the darkness, but Stiles can’t move, can’t run. He can only watch as a large hand shoots out of the forest and grabs him, squeezing him until he can hardly breath. Stiles screams._

He wakes up thrashing in Derek’s arms; his dad crouched over his head. Stiles blinks fast as he tries to take in his surroundings, confused and terrified. He pries his hands out of where his dad is grasping them and studies them closely, expecting to find wrinkles and age spots.

 

Derek slowly grabs one of Stiles hands and pulls it away from Stiles’ face. “Do you need to count them?” He asks. Stiles shakes his head but shoots Derek a grateful and exhausted smile. With a nod Derek stands up but returns moments later holding a glass of water. Stiles drinks it down quickly then takes the Sheriff’s hand as he’s helped to his feet. His dad ushers him into his office and settles him on the couch while Derek firmly shuts the office door behind him. The Beacon Hills Police Department was used to some weird scenes, but the deputies were all still staring at Stiles as he gingerly got to his feet.

 

“What exactly did you see?” The Sheriff asked, notebook in hand.

 

“It was the thing again. The one I’ve been seeing. But this time I was someone else, an older person. I had wrinkled old hands and I think…I think I might be dead now? I don’t know, the dreams aren’t ever conclusive. It grabbed me before I woke up.”

 

The Sheriff turned to Derek. “Check and see if any elderly residents have been found missing yet, and if not give the preserve a check. Better cover our bases.” Derek nodded, and growled at Stiles “stay out of trouble” before beating a hasty retreat. Stiles rolled his eyes in response, but couldn’t bite back his small grin.

 

“We’d better go talk to Deaton.” The Sheriff said, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He was getting what he liked to call one of his “supernaturally” bad headaches.

 

“If I didn’t know any better,” his dad pauses, clearly still ill at ease with the situation, and starts again. “These dreams of yours have turned out to be awfully on the nose about everything. So what are you then, a prophet?” The Sheriff asks with a small laugh. “God, your nana would have loved this mess. She always did love that show ‘The Medium’” the Sheriff winked. Stiles grinned, and together they made their way out to the parking lot. A prophet. Huh. Stiles suspects that whatever he is has got be a bit less idyllic.

 

Deaton seems to think so too.

 

“It worries me that you have been having these visions in what sounds like emotionally volatile moments. It means you are nowhere near being able to control this gift—“

 

“Gift?? This isn’t a fucking gift! You think I want to see some sort of creature killing people everyday? That I want to feel like my head is physically splitting open, that I want to never be able to have a stable job ever again—“

 

“Stiles!” His dad barks, grabbing Stiles’ shoulder. “You need to stop, son. Deaton is trying to help you. I know that this has been hard for you, kiddo, I really do. But you need to calm down, and sit the hell down. Got it?”

 

Stiles took a deep breath, leaning into his father.   


“Yeah, fuck, I…uh, sorry Doc. I’ve been a little on edge.”

 

Deaton just smiles calmly at Stiles and gestures to a chair. “Quite alright Mr. Stilinski, I know that this cannot be easy. But the reality is that this is your spark. I wish for you that this could be a less painful process but you need to learn control as soon as possible. Now, what exactly happened in this new vision?”

 

Stiles describes his vision, how he was inside the body of the elderly victim. How the voice seemed to coax him further, almost like he had no choice. As he talks Deaton takes book after book down from his shelves, piling them in front of Stiles.

 

“I was hoping that your spark would settle on its own and then we could investigate the creature with more certitude, but it would seem that time is of the essence. Using what we know from your sight I am confident that we can at least narrow down a few possible creatures from these sources. I will look into the description you gave me of the being with my contacts but until then these tomes are your best bet. Let me know what you find.” And with a placid smile, Deaton swept out of the room.

 

“That man really knows how to make an exit, doesn’t he?” The sheriff mutters to himself as he helps Stiles carry the books to the cruiser. Stiles laughs while sending a quick text to Lydia to meet Stiles back at his apartment. They had some research to do.


End file.
